


But Keep the Old

by Lauralot



Series: Alexander Pierce should have died slower [20]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Apologies, Bi-Gender Character(s), Boundaries, Face Punching, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Miscommunication, Non-Sexual Age Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 05:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4948756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky tries to apologize to Natasha.</p><p>His new friends have some helpful ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Keep the Old

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read my [_Little Interludes_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3705493/chapters/8200739) story collection, then two sections of this installment will seem very familiar. Part of this fic was made by taking two of the interludes, ["A Little Too Big"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3705493/chapters/8202831) and ["Playmate,"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3705493/chapters/8892655) and placing them within a larger story. They are not exactly the same as they appear in _Little Interludes_ ; I've made some changes to help them mesh better with the larger story. I chose to reuse these interludes because I wanted to do more with Crystal, and I thought it would be strange to have a recurring character who never appeared outside of the interludes.

**Make new friends**  
**But keep the old**  
**One is silver**  
**And the other gold**  
—“Make New Friends,” Unknown

  


There’s a tiny purple bud amid the leaves in the flower pot.

Bucky’s sprawled out on Steve’s bed, staring at the plant on the windowsill. He squints against the sun, scooting a little closer to be sure he’s seeing correctly. The African violet is starting to flower. He’ll probably need to take it up to the rooftop garden with Pepper’s flowers so the bees can pollinate it.

Bucky doesn’t sit up, though. The Soldier’s in charge of the plant, and he doesn’t feel very much like the Soldier right now.

It was Steve’s idea, the plant. Bucky’s pretty sure it materialized in the bedroom the same day that Steve took him to the arcade, but Steve insists that Pepper gave it to him a while back, and he keeps forgetting to water it. “I could really use some help with this, Soldier,” Steve had said, holding out the pot for him to examine. “I don’t want Pepper’s present to die because I’m forgetful.”

Bucky remembers thinking it was a strange mission. Most of the Soldier’s missions are strange these days.

There’s a calendar on Bucky’s bedroom wall now, and every night when Steve comes to tuck him in, they put star stickers on it together for the missions that the Soldier’s done that day. The green stars are for watering and otherwise caring for the violet plant. They put up one of those stars every day. Other stars are just once or twice a week, like the red stars for laundry or the blue stars for making dinner. Silver stars mean that the Soldier participated in a therapy session. Participating doesn’t mean talking, necessarily, just listening thoughtfully about how to apply the doctors’ suggestions and not automatically dismissing their advice and thinking that they’re trying to hurt him.

The gold stars are the only stars with two purposes: shining shoes and taking out the trash. Bucky isn’t sure why those things combined constitute a mission, but he doesn’t mind doing them. Once he runs out of Steve’s shoes, he’ll probably go steal some of Tony’s.

Steve says that if there are enough stars at the end of the month, the Soldier can play paintball. Bucky’s not sure if that’s a great plan, but apparently Steve’s talked this over with the therapists, and Bucky assumes they have plans to keep him from going into mission-mode and murdering everyone with a paintball gun.

He doesn’t want to complain anyway. The stars are nice. There were never any stars at HYDRA.

Steve throws the bathroom door open with such force that it almost slams into the wall. The collar of his shirt is turned up on one side, and he’s glancing at his watch before almost diving under the bed for his shoes. “I have to get out of here now if I don’t want to be late,” he says. “Why the hell did I schedule an appointment right after rush hour?”

Today is Steve’s first appointment with his therapist. His sessions aren’t at the tower, and Bucky hopes the occasional break from the madhouse does him as much good as any doctor can.

Bucky reaches out and straightens his collar.

“Thanks.” Steve jams his feet into the shoes in the exact way he always tells Bucky not to when he’s little. “I’ll be back way before you go to bed, I promise. We can do whatever you want then.”

“Look at the plant,” Bucky says.

Steve seems almost stricken as he turns, as though he excepts the plant to have withered and died, and now he’ll have to miss his appointment to comfort Bucky. But then he stops, leaning in closer to examine it, and when he turns back to Bucky, he’s practically beaming.

It’s hard to hug someone who’s mostly lying down, but Steve manages. “Wow, I didn’t even know it did that,” he says. “Thank you for looking after it, Buck, you did great.”

“You didn’t know a violet plant flowered?” Bucky asks. That sounds like the sort of shit he might buy as a kid or a weapon, but definitely not as an adult.

Steve kisses his forehead before he pulls away. “I’ve got to go.” His eyes dart to his watch again, and he runs a hand through his hair on the way to the elevator. “Have fun while I’m out, okay?”

“Don’t get yourself committed,” Bucky says brightly. He waits until the elevator shuts after Steve to sink down on the bed again, sighing as he does. His hand falls to his jeans, feeling the piece of paper in his pocket through the denim.

Have fun. Sure.

He hasn’t had fun in the last two weeks.

It’s not Steve. Steve, bless him, is the only thing that’s kept Bucky going. Steve’s handled the knowledge that Bucky’s Soldier conditioning is still around and probably permanent so smoothly. Steve’s a fucking saint, and Bucky hopes when he gets to that therapy session that he allows himself to cry and scream and everything else he won’t do where Bucky could see it.

When Bucky was first grown-up again after the fit he threw two weeks ago, Steve held him together. Steve made him feel he might be more than just a miserable, malicious piece of shit. “When enough pressure builds up, Buck,” he’d said, propping Bucky upright and steady, “it has to come out somehow. And we might hope it’s in better, more controlled conditions, but this isn’t all on you, okay? I should have realized. You lance infections, you don’t wait for them to tear open on their own. If I hadn’t been so thick-headed, this could have all been avoided.”

Steve is responsible for every fleeting moment of happiness Bucky’s had since that fit, save for one incident involving Tony, Dum-E, and a tickle fight. Even more than the therapists, Steve’s made him feel redeemable. It’s not Steve who wipes the smile from Bucky’s face almost as quickly as it forms.

It’s Natasha.

Bucky had apologized the instant he and Steve had finished cleaning up the destruction he’d left in his wake. To Natasha, to Pepper, and finally to Steve. Steve had insisted on that, although Bucky would have begged for forgiveness without his coaxing. You don’t hurt somebody without making amends, and especially not on purpose. Bucky doesn’t remember much of his mother, but he knows she raised him better than that.

His apology to Steve had lasted half an hour, a sobbing mess where he’d fluctuated between headspaces so quickly it had made him dizzy. He doesn’t know how Steve made any sense of it, only that once it was through, Steve was holding him so tight it bordered on suffocating, stroking his back and promising that he’d love Bucky forever.

He barely remembers his apology to Pepper either. Bucky had been sniffling by the time she even came into the room, and he vaguely recalls his head on her lap while he’d told her how very, very sorry he was, how she’d make a great parent and he’d just wanted to hurt Daddy and didn’t mean any of the awful, awful things he said about her or about Tony, she’d be a great mommy and she cooks really well, please don’t hate me Mommy, please.

Pepper had been tearing up herself once he was through. She’d said she accepted his apology and she wasn’t angry.

Natasha had accepted his apology too. But Bucky can tell that she hates him.

That was his first apology and probably the thing that put him in such a bad state of mind for the other two. He remembers that one perfectly.

They’d met in the dining room. Bucky hadn’t wanted to invade Natasha’s bedroom or make her come to his. And he hadn’t wanted to take her back to the playroom after he’d hit her there the day before.

Bucky had felt so small, huddled in on himself, metal fingertips digging into the opposite arm. He’d had to force himself to look across the table and meet her eyes. He’d been so little then, he barely even felt five.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, then squeezed at his arm again until he spoke louder. “I shouldn’t have hit you, and I shouldn’t have lied and said it was Bucky Bear. ‘Cause Bucky Bear’s part of me and it was still my fault. I was scared, but that doesn’t make it okay. I should have told you I didn’t like to have my hair touched, and I shouldn’t have hit. I’m sorry, Tasha. I’m really, really sorry.”

She hadn’t been Tasha then, and she hasn’t been since. At least not in Bucky’s presence. Natasha had stared at him, the bruise still so dark on her face, and calmly, flatly said, “I accept your apology, Bucky.”

Since then, Natasha’s been friendly. She doesn’t run out of the gym or the kitchen when Bucky comes in. She’ll say hello. She even sat next to him at the movie night last week. But he hasn’t seen Tasha in two weeks, and even as an adult, she hasn’t spent any time alone with him.

He should give her space. He knows it, and the therapists agree. But he can’t shake the feeling that he’s caused irreparable harm. Natasha’s been hurt so many times in her life, and now she’s experienced pain at his hand as well. She’s free of the Red Room and the KGB and everyone else who used her, and she shouldn’t have to put up with abuse ever again. So she shouldn’t have to put up with Bucky anymore either.

In some ways, Natasha feels like his oldest, dearest friend. He remembers so little of the past with Steve, and she’s been here for him since the first moment she saw a frightened child crying on his bed. She’s given him nothing but love and support, and look how he repaid her. Bucky wishes he could put into words how sorry he is for what he’s done, but he doesn’t think the words exist.

Bucky reaches into his pocket and pulls out the crumpled piece of paper, staring at the address he wrote there. He exhales slowly, checks the time on his phone.

Might as well head out. There’s nothing for him at the tower tonight, not while Steve’s gone. Maybe not ever again.

*

Bucky’s hiding under the table.

 _This was a bad idea,_ he thinks, staring down at the floor. It’s mostly gray, but every few tiles, there’s a block of color: red, blue, or green. In his arms, Bucky Bear doesn’t argue.

He’d found this group online a week ago and revisited the website over and over, sometimes chomping at the bit with need and sometimes hoping the site would have somehow vanished, as if that would stifle his desire. “Toy Box,” the website called this place, “a safe space for Manhattan littles and caregivers.” They meet here once a month. Non-members and the curious are welcome, but anyone “interrupting the atmosphere or disturbing the community” will be asked to leave.

Bucky wonders if he’s disturbing the atmosphere. Nobody else is hiding under a table. They’re running around having fun, or stacking blocks, or listening to stories. Some of the kids are really loud, and some are quiet. But he’s the only one hiding.

He’s not sure anymore what he even wanted from coming here. To talk? To work out how he feels about this part of him that’s probably never going away? To tell someone besides his doctors about how he’s sure Daddy doesn’t really like to play with him?

Or maybe just to try and make new friends now that Tasha can’t stand the sight of him.

There are some daddies and mommies here. There are also staff members wearing ID badges. Bucky guesses they’re like babysitters. He almost itches with the urge to crawl into someone’s lap and beg for a hug, but that’s stupid. They all look happy to be here. They won’t want to talk about problems.

Maybe he just wanted to play for once knowing that the people joining in weren’t doing it out of obligation. Knowing they don’t fear that he’ll hurt them. But he doesn’t feel right playing with these strangers. He’s not really like them. If they knew who he was, how he got this way, they probably wouldn’t want him around. They’d say he’s giving the community a bad name.

Bucky sniffs. The air smells like cleaner and graham crackers. Bucky Bear isn’t having fun and suggests they go home.

“Hi there,” someone says softly.

There’s a lady–a girl–crouched down beside the table. Her smile is kind of like Tasha’s but that’s the only similarity: she’s shorter and wider and Bucky thinks she’s Latina. The girl has her hair in braids and she’s wearing a Rapunzel sweatshirt. Bucky’s never seen Tangled. Daddy says it’s not appropriate.

“Are you alone?” the girl asks.

Bucky shakes his head because Bucky Bear’s with him. For a few seconds when he first found the Toy Box website, he thought about asking Tasha to come, but even if she didn’t hate him now, Bucky knows how careful she is about letting people in on her secrets. She wouldn’t want a bunch of strangers knowing something so private.

And he understands that. He’s got his left hand covered and there’s a knit hat hiding his hair. He doesn’t want anyone to see him as a criminal or a victim or any of the other stuff they call him on the news. He doesn’t want to be a monster here like he was to Tasha.

The girl cranes her neck and smiles at his bear. “Ooh!” she says. “He’s cute. What’s his name?”

“Bucky Bear,” he mouths because his voice isn’t really working.

“I like his nose,” says the girl. “What’s your name?”

“James,” he whispers. That’s not really a lie. It’s written on his birth certificate and everything. It’s also on the special ID Tony made for Bucky, for times he wants to go out and enjoy himself without everyone getting excited at his name. That’s the ID Bucky used to come in here. It says “James Rogers” on it, but Tony says that’s not actually lying because Daddy is Bucky’s legal guardian now.

“I’m Crystal,” she says, and he wonders if that’s her real name. He wonders what it’s like not to be embarrassed and scared all the time. “Hey, ever played Godzilla?”

Bucky shakes his head.

“You stack up a buncha blocks like buildings,” she explains. Crystal sits back on the floor, twisting up her shoelaces between her fingers. “And then you get something to be Godzilla–it could be you or your bear or anything–and you knock ‘em all down!”

Bucky stares. Knocking things down does sound fun right now, more fun than it ever has, but it sounds like it would make a mess, too. Maybe he’d push the blocks too hard and someone would get hit. He doesn’t think the grown-ups would be happy.

“It’s allowed,” Crystal says. “You just gotta clean the blocks up when you’re done. You wanna play?”

He looks at the corner with the blocks. It looks really far away and not under any tables. It looks like there are a lot of kids over there who could get hit. “Uh-uh.”

“I can bring the blocks here,” Crystal says.

Bucky Bear doesn’t think it’s safe. Bucky Bear doesn’t trust new people.

“…Kay,” Bucky whispers.

It turns out Bucky Bear’s really good at knocking down blocks. Crystal cheers every time he does it, and Bucky can tell it makes the bear happy. Plus, Bucky Bear always has perfect control on missions, and games are basically missions. None of the blocks hurt Crystal. They don’t even come close.

When the meet-up is over, Crystal scrawls an email address in crayon on some construction paper and shoves it at Bucky. “In case you ever wanna hang out,” she says, and she’s smiling. It’s a real smile, the kind that shows up around her eyes too instead of just her mouth, and it makes Bucky smile to see it as well, although he hides his smile behind his hand.

He’s still smiling when he leaves the building, still smiling when Crystal walks the other way and out of sight.

*

The smile lasts until the elevator doors slide open.

Bucky’s back at the tower, riding the elevator up to his room. Bucky Bear’s smiling too, not even counting the seconds of their ascent to be sure that JARVIS isn’t leading them somewhere terrible. Bucky Bear’s done that less and less ever since Bucky got missions to perform as the Soldier.

But they both stop smiling when the elevator stops early and the doors open. Natasha’s standing there, her hair pulled back and her skin shiny with sweat. She’s been working out. And she doesn’t look happy to see them.

“Hi,” Bucky says. He’s not little now, and there’s something twisting low in his stomach. Disgust is creeping up his throat. Not for being little, not even for going out and making it public, but for trying to replace Natasha. He hadn’t intended to. All he’d wanted was to give her space. But standing here now, struggling to meet her eye, he can’t view his actions as anything but a betrayal. What gives him the right to seek out new friends after hurting her? How can he stand to show his face to other kids?

“Hi,” Natasha says. The bruising on her face is barely there anymore, a faint yellow discoloration against her cheek. She doesn’t step inside the elevator.

Bucky shifts forward, intending to get out and let her in. It seems only right. But he stiffens the second he moves, cursing himself in his mind. She doesn’t want to share space with him. She won’t appreciate it if he comes closer to her. She might even take it as a threat.

And just like that, Natasha steps back. “Forgot my water bottle,” she says, turning away. She’s not smiling.

Neither is Bucky.

The doors slide closed again and Bucky Bear says they do so at the same speed as always, but it still seems to Bucky like they slammed shut.

*

There’s a scrap of construction paper on the nightstand when Bucky wakes up in the morning, and he quickly shoves it under his pillow. He doesn’t want to have to explain if Steve comes in and gets curious. He doesn’t want the news to spread; then he’d have to deal with ribbing from Tony and Clint about his “new girlfriend” or something. And he doesn’t want to run the risk of upsetting Natasha more than he already has.

Bucky lies back down, rubbing at his sleep-clouded eyes. Last night feels more like a dream than anything else, really. Leaving the house to meet a group of total strangers, Bucky Bear having fun interacting with someone new, the very existence of a community for people like him.

 _Not like me,_ he reminds himself at once. Nothing like him beyond the superficial. These people chose their lifestyle. They’re not broken and stained like him. And he bets they’ve never killed anyone. Never shot or punched their friends.

He can hear the paper crinkling beneath the pillow, though that’s probably more paranoia than actual audible noise. The odds are Crystal was just being nice when she gave him her email address. Or maybe she likes him in that headspace, but as an adult she’ll look back and realize how strange he was. And even if she hasn’t already worked that out by some miracle, she’ll figure it out as soon as she sees him again.

Besides, who emails someone they barely know less than a day after they first met them? That’s creepy, right? It’s probably creepy.

Then again, maybe it’s not, and it’s rude not to contact her straight away. Bucky has no idea. He lives with everyone else he’s in contact with, save for his relatives and Rumlow. His interactions with Rumlow aren’t normal at all, and his interactions with his family are limited to the times his sisters have the stamina to type out emails. Or whenever Freddie’s allowed online.

Bucky sighs. He rolls over, burying his face in the pillow. “JARVIS?”

**YES, SERGEANT BARNES?**

“Back when—” Bucky’s face flushes. His words are muffled, but he makes no effort to move. “When Tony used to go on dates. How long did he wait before he called the lady again?” This isn’t dating—Bucky’s way too fucked up to inflict himself on a romantic partner even if he _wanted_ to date anyway—but he doesn’t know what else to compare it to.

There’s a pause.

**SIR TENDED NOT TO CALL HIS COMPANIONS A SECOND TIME, SERGEANT BARNES.**

It figures.

He decides to go check on Steve’s plant before he does anything.

*

“You like bubble tea?” Crystal asks as Bucky stares blankly at the coffee menu. He remembers coffee being simpler: black, sugar, or cream. There was also something called espresso in Italy, but Steve says Bucky’s not allowed to have that anymore. Apparently there was an incident.

“Bubble tea?” he repeats, feeling the heat of a flush slowly spreading through his face. Bucky hates not knowing things almost as much as he hates being in public. In his backpack, Bucky Bear’s sulking; he’s less suspicious of Crystal now, but he still thinks meeting in an unsecured coffee shop is a recipe for disaster.

So does Bucky, honestly. Just not in the ambush sense that Bucky Bear worries about.

“Does it have milk in it?” he asks.

“Only if you want it,” Crystal says. She doesn’t have her hair in pigtails like she did at the meet-up. It’s in a long braid with a sparkling clip shaped like a butterfly at the bottom. She probably doesn’t have any stuffed animals hidden in her purse. Maybe if Bucky tries hard enough, he can melt into the floor. Maybe HYDRA taught him how. “Lactose intolerant?”

“Sort of.”

“It’s like iced tea with tapioca pearls in it,” she explains. “Do you like tapioca?”

“Yes,” says Bucky, not because he remembers but because Crystal works here. She’d asked if they could hang out after the end of her shift; she just took off her apron a minute ago. If she suggested it, she must like it. If she likes it, it would be rude not to try it. So that’s how he ends up with a green bubble tea in his gloved hand.

“So,” Bucky says, poking with his straw at one of the tapioca pearls lurking at the bottom of the cup. “You work here.”

What a brilliant observation. Like she hadn’t established that in her email yesterday. She seemed so eager to hang out again, and now he’s making an idiot of himself in less than ten minutes.

Steve says Bucky was good at talking to girls. Must be another thing the chair took away.

“For the past five months,” Crystal says, and then slurps at her frappuccino. “Can I ask what you do?”

“I…don’t work.” He should tell her who he is. His therapists would encourage him to open up and besides, if he doesn’t tell her right away, she’ll be angry or upset when she finds out. But what’s he supposed to say? ‘By the way, I’m the Winter Soldier’? She’d probably run screaming down the street. “I can’t.”

Which isn’t technically true: he _could_ , but even if he thought he could handle it, who’d hire a former assassin? He doesn’t need to work anyway; after the trial, Tony’s legal team managed to get the rights to Bucky’s image. And with all the new merchandise coming out because of Bucky’s declared innocence, he’d be set even if he weren’t living in the tower. He sucks on his straw, forgetting about the tapioca, and blinking in surprise when it lands on his tongue, sweet and gelatinous.

Crystal giggles at his expression. “You get used to it.”

“So…” He scraps his straw along the bottom of the cup again. “How long have you been—going to Toy Box?” He’d nearly asked how long she’s been little, but that seems too private a thing to ask on a second meeting.

“About a year.” Just talking about it lights up her face. It must feel nice to feel so safe in that space, so accepted. “They asked me to help organize the events a couple months back, but I don’t have the stamina for that kinda responsibility, you know?”

Bucky nods. Sometimes he barely has the stamina to get out of bed, particularly during his trial and in the past couple of weeks.

“Your little bear was so cute,” she continues, already halfway done with her own drink. “Where’d you get him? He looked, like, vintage.”

“He was a present.” And now Bucky’s face is absolutely on fire. He doesn’t want to think about the day Steve gave him the bear. “From my, uh, from—”

“You have a caregiver?” Crystal asks, and he nods because that’s what Steve is, whatever age Bucky’s at. “Well, they’ve got great taste in stuffies.”

“Yeah.” Bucky sips the tea as his bear fumes over being called a ‘stuffie.’ “He’s—he’s great, he’s my best friend.”

“You should invite him along next month,” she offers, and horror must show on his face because she immediately adds, “I mean—if he’s into the community, I know some people are more private, my last caregiver, she wasn’t big on—”

“It’s complicated.” How the hell is he supposed to explain that he was programmed to be little and it’s something his friends have to deal with whether they really want to or not? She wouldn’t believe him. She’d probably think he was making fun of the whole culture. What Bucky wouldn’t give to choke on tea just to end the conversation. “See, my last d—the man who got me into this—he wasn’t—it wasn’t a healthy relationship.”

Then Crystal’s hand is on top of his and he starts, hoping she can’t feel the metal through his glove. “I’m sorry, James.” He can’t read her face. Maybe she’s just sympathetic. Maybe she’s been mistreated too.

“I—thank you. It’s okay.” Bucky shakes his head. “It’s just—even now that I’m away from him, it’s still something I want, you know? And Steve—he says that’s okay, but I don’t think he’d be into this if I didn’t need it. He’d come with me if I asked, I know he would. I just—I don’t want to ask.”

“Have you talked to him about it?”

Bucky smiles, but it’s forced. He thinks of the shock and hurt on Steve’s face at all the awful things he said after Steve took his bear. He thinks of Tasha crying on the floor and his apologies doing nothing to stop her tears. Sometimes he thinks it would be better if he never spoke again.

“Remember how I was hiding under the table when we met?” he manages. “I’m not the best at using words.”

Crystal looks thoughtful and a little sad, so he stares down at the table, trying to focus on finishing his tea and nothing else.

A phone chimes in Crystal’s purse, some snippet of a tune he doesn’t recognize, and she pulls it out to read a message.

“Hey,” she says, putting the phone back into her purse. The purse is orange and made to look like a fox’s face.

Bucky wonders if they make red panda purses like that. He wonders if Natasha would be willing to use one, or if she’d say “Thank you, Bucky,” and then throw it in the back of a closet and never, ever touch it again.

“A couple of my friends are nearby,” Crystal’s saying. “Would you like to meet them?”

He almost chokes on tapioca. That’s the last thing he needs: more people around to potentially set him off. More people to hurt. “I don’t think—” Bucky coughs. “I don’t think that’s a good—”

“You don’t have to if it would make you uncomfortable,” Crystal says. Her hand is on Bucky’s glove again. “I don’t want you to feel shy or awkward or anything. It’s just that my best friend just got out of this interview for a job he really wants, and he’s _freaking out_ and I don’t wanna run out on you to see him or anything, so I thought I’d ask.”

 _I don’t think I should,_ Bucky thinks, but his throat isn’t working, as if the tapioca sealed it shut. All he can do is stand up, and he can’t leave without saying goodbye, so he follows her out the door.

*

Crystal’s friends are named Judah and Dakota and they’re waiting at a bus stop three blocks over. Judah has thick, curly hair and Bucky can see tattoos peeking out from under the collar and one cuff of his shirt. His eyes are such a deep brown that they’re almost black, and they’re wide enough for Bucky to see the whites all around his irises. Bucky assumes that’s due to stress over the interview.

Dakota’s tall, their hair done up in short, tight braids sticking in all directions. Their skirt is a patchwork of thick fabrics in deep reds, oranges, and yellows, each square of color rimmed with brown. It makes Bucky think of leaves in autumn. They hug Bucky tight when Crystal makes introductions. It’s surprising but comforting, even if Bucky Bear’s telling him to stay on alert.

“Dakota, James. James, Dakota,” Crystal says. “Judah, James. James, Judah. Judah, breathe.”

Judah is breathing, albeit quickly and shallowly. “I looked like an _idiot_ , Crys. I know I fucked it up.”

“You didn’t,” Crystal insists. “Remember those mock interviews at school? The counselor said you were great.”

“Probably so I wouldn’t have a crisis in the middle of the career center,” Judah mutters.

“Sit down.” Dakota takes hold of Judah’s shoulders and pushes him down onto the bus stop bench. “There’s no point in analyzing the whole thing to death in your head, you know that? You can’t go back in time and change your answers. So focus on what you need now.”

“Uh.” Judah exhales slowly, briefly fogging up Dakota’s glasses in the process. “For the world to just—stop existing? Is that feasible?”

“How about lunch?” Crystal asks.

Dakota suggests pizza, but Crystal tells them that Bucky’s lactose intolerant, and all the places with vegan cheese are apparently too far of a walk. They end up at a nearby sushi bar, sitting on one side of a glass partition as a woman rolls sushi opposite them.

Bucky can’t remember if he’s ever had sushi. Sometimes food’s a blur and he’s more concerned with forcing it down than anything else. But it’s just rice and vegetables and fish. He can handle that. He can sit here and have a conversation and not crush the menu with his prosthetic hand.

He ends up with a rainbow roll artfully arranged between little heaps of wasabi and ginger. There’s color seeping back into Judah’s face now that he’s eating, and maybe Bucky can just sit quietly, trying to work out his chopsticks, and listen to their conversation. Listening’s good. He can’t mess that up.

“So you’re the one with the bear,” Dakota says, and so much for that.

Bucky nods. He wishes he weren’t wearing a hat, and he could just let his hair fall in his face and hide the blush creeping into his cheeks.

From the backpack, Bucky Bear says that under no circumstances is he coming out. He’s not going to risk being dangled in wasabi no matter how many people want to admire him.

“Crys mentioned you on Skype.” Judah dips one of his gyoza into a small bowl of sauce. “Well, your bear mostly. Which isn’t a slight against you—she just has a thing for destructive stuffed animals.”

Bucky ducks his head to cover his smile, wiping soy sauce from his lips.

“How’d you find the Toy Box?” Dakota asks. “Word of mouth?”

“Online,” Bucky mutters. He wonders if Dakota or Judah are little too. He didn’t see them the other night, but it’s not like he got a good look at much of anything from under the table.

“He couldn’t have heard about it in person,” Judah says simultaneously. “Otherwise he’d have known about the Play-Doh incident, and he’d have stayed the hell away from Crystal.”

“That was one time! Eight months ago!” Crystal’s face is red, but she’s laughing. Bucky Bear agrees that Bucky probably doesn’t need to intervene on her behalf.

“Play-Doh incident?” he asks.

What follows is about five minutes of his companions talking over each other, giggling—and in Crystal’s case, protesting—their way through a story involving Play-Doh, chewing gum, safety scissors, and peanut butter. Bucky’s no closer to understanding by the end than he was at the beginning, and he’s not entirely sure if they know what the Play-Doh incident is either, given the conflicting narratives. But he’s laughing along with them by the end of it, verging on helplessly overcome by giggles.

So of course that’s when it all goes to hell.

“Do you have any other friends who are little, James?” Dakota asks. There’s still a giggle tinting their words, but their face is open, innocent. It’s a natural question and not one meant to hurt.

Knowing that doesn’t keep Bucky from shattering.

All he can think of is Tasha. Tasha leading expeditions to raid the fridge during sleepovers and buying a set of bunk beds so he could sleep over in the first place. Tasha coming up with the idea of pretending they invented a language so they could confuse Tony and make him spend hours trying to break their code. Natasha looking out for him in the early days when Steve couldn’t stand the sight of him. Tasha’s eyes, wide and hurt, after Bucky had hit her.

She’ll never want anything to do with him again. He’ll never get to watch movies or play with Red Panda or laugh like this with Tasha for the rest of his life.

Bucky feels like all the sushi he ate is going to come right back up on the sneeze guard in front of him, and he can’t even force out an apology before he’s standing, running to hide in the restroom.

His shoulders heave as he races into a stall, but nothing comes up. Bucky just stands there, his knuckles white around the grab bar, dripping tears onto the bathroom floor. He’s so stupid. He’s so _awful._

The door creaks open behind him. “James?”

It’s Judah’s voice. Bucky’s stomach sinks and he can’t bear to turn around.

“Buddy?”

He’s sniffling as Judah says it, and for a second he misunderstands, hearing Bucky instead and freezing up. They know who he is and they’ll probably tell the papers and the Internet and everyone will know that Bucky Barnes is still a pathetic freak and they’ll think he’s a sexual deviant who should have been locked up after all and—

“Buddy?” Judah says again. “Are you all right? Dakota didn’t mean to make you upset, I swear.”

“It’s nothing.” He scrubs his sleeve over his eyes. “It’s stupid. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to feel sorry for being upset.”

“You’re the one who needed support.” Bucky sniffles again, pulling his hat off so his hair can hide his face. He looks so stupid when he cries. “And I made it all about me. I’m an idiot.”

“Hey.” There’s a hand on his shoulder. Bucky stiffens, but if Judah feels the metal under the jacket, he doesn’t react. “James. Buddy. It’s not like anyone’s keeping score, all right? It’s fine for more than one person to need help. That’s how friendship works, you know? Everyone’s giving and taking all the time and supporting everyone else.”

“You barely know me.” Bucky shuffles back. He shouldn’t be trying to get close to anyone. He’ll just end up hurting them too.

“I know Crys likes you,” Judah says. “And I trust her judgment.”

“ _She_ barely knows me.” Bucky shakes his head. “I just mess everything up. I’m like a leech—I have so many problems and I just take and take and take and then when other people need me, I fuck it all up. I’m awful.”

“You can’t be that awful. If you were using everyone around you on purpose, you wouldn’t feel bad.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that. What does it matter if he feels bad when the damage is still done? When an apology doesn’t help?

“James, it’s really not your fault. We didn’t even remember to tell you the safeword.”

“Safeword?” Bucky’s head snaps up. Safewords are for sex. For all the kind of scenes that Pierce had forced him into, except safewords are what decent, non-rapist people add to the scenario.

“Yeah,” Judah says. “We have a conversational safeword. You know, so if a discussion’s making anyone uncomfortable, we can end it right away, no arguments or questions asked.”

“You can have safewords for conversations?”

Judah nods. “For anything you want. Ours is ‘vestigial,’ all right? So when we go back out there, if anything starts to make you feel bad, just say ‘vestigial’ and we’ll stop. I promise.”

Bucky straightens up, mouth working. “Do you have any other safeguards like that?”

“Come on,” Judah says, so Bucky follows. When he sits back down, he takes Bucky Bear from his backpack, careful to hold him away from the wasabi. No one talks about the way he ran off. They just coo over his bear, and the conversation moves on.

*

The floor is littered with crumpled sheets of paper.

They’re ripped from a notebook Bruce gave to him, a Captain America-themed one that has a faint but huge image of Steve’s shield on every page. Each page contains part of a letter, most never reaching beyond the salutation.

 _Dear Natasha_. Too formal. _Dear Tasha_. Too manipulative. What if it puts her in her little headspace and that colors her reaction? _Natasha_. Too impersonal.

Bucky scrambles around his bedroom, wadding up the papers and throwing them in the wastebasket. As if putting them out of sight will make him stop obsessing and panicking over the words in the finished letter, the one he taped to Natasha’s door while she was in the gym.

 _Dear Nat,_ that letter begins. _I want to apologize properly this time, and I’m sorry that it took me so long to do this right. I didn’t realize all the damage I’d done, and I thought you just needed space. And if you do need space, I’ll give it to you. If you don’t want to spend time with me ever again, I’ll understand._

_I thought this was just about hitting and playing bad games with the bears. I was so busy hating myself for those things that I didn’t see the whole picture. It’s not just about punching you or playing out missions. Both of those things were wrong, and I’m still sorry for them, but I haven’t addressed the real issue._

_Being little is supposed to be a safe space for both of us. A space where we can be open and vulnerable and not fear any abuse or judgment. But I wrecked that space for you when I played out the mission where I shot you with the bears, without even thinking about what that might do to you. And then I hit you in a room that was meant to be just for our safe space. And I apologize for those things again, but saying I’m sorry doesn’t fix the damage._

_You’ve always made me feel safe, and I haven’t done the same for you. So I want you to be the one to set the boundaries from now on. I want your comfort to matter as much as mine. And if you won’t be comfortable playing with me anymore, if you don’t want me to use the playroom or Bear Widow or any of that, I’ll understand and respect your wishes._

_If you do want to spend time around me again, I want you to feel safe doing that too. I heard about safewords for nonsexual things today, stuff like conversations or games or anywhere it’s needed. You can pick a word to say when I do anything that bothers you, and I promise I’ll stop right away. I’ll even leave the room if you want. I’ve looked up other stuff too. Some parents make these construction paper stoplights for their kids, and the kids can indicate their mood by putting a clothespin or something on the red (really upset), yellow (stressed), or green (happy) circles. I thought maybe I could make something like that for me, so you’d know if I was in a bad mood and you could stay away if you wanted. Or JARVIS could tell you so you wouldn’t even have to come by and check. Or anything else you’d want that could help you feel safe again._

_You mean the world to me, Nat, no matter what age you are. You were the first person since I got away from HYDRA who really understood me and knew just what to do to help. I wish I could do that for you. At the very least, I want to make you feel safe again. If that means staying away, I will. If that means following guidelines you set up, then I promise I’ll stick to them and never complain._

_I never meant to hurt you. I’m sorry and I’ll do anything you want to make it right._

_Love, Bucky._

All the papers are picked up from the floor now, but Bucky’s still holding the wastebasket because he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands. His left fingers are warping the wire mesh. He drops it, and papers spill onto the floor again. Bucky tries not to see them, sitting on the bed and holding Bucky Bear tight. His foot is bouncing against the floor, over and over.

“You remember what I told you about your self-loathing?” Natasha asks. She’s in the doorway, Bucky’s letter in her hands. “After we went shopping for my panda?”

He remembers that conversation clear as day. He’d been the one standing in her doorway then. “That it’s almost egotistical?”

“Right.” She stares at the letter, shakes her head. “And with this one, you’ve somehow managed to both make yourself the worst person who ever lived _again_ , but also completely neglected yourself at the same time. I don’t know how you do it.”

Bucky isn’t sure how to interpret any of that. Except he thinks she just called him selfish, and that doesn’t bode well. “So do you want me to leave you alone?”

“For God’s sake.” Natasha steps into the room, sighing. “I want you to understand that making everything centered on me wouldn’t be any better than making it all about _you_ , Bucky. This is supposed to be safe for both of us, you know.”

“But I’ve always felt safe.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Obviously not. Or you would have told me how upset it makes you to have your hair played with.” She folds the letter back into thirds and uses it to swat Bucky’s leg. “Scoot over, I want to sit down.”

Bucky shuffles back, face burning. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Anything that upsets you is a big deal,” she says. “How am I supposed to feel safe playing with you if I’m worried that everything we do could be secretly tearing you up?”

He hides his face behind the bear. Great. He’s been making Natasha worry this whole time too. “Sorry.”

“You say that so often it barely sounds like a word anymore.”

Bucky glances over the top of his bear. Natasha looks exasperated, but not angry. “Then what should I say?”

“It’s not about _saying_.” She picks up his notebook, flipping it to a blank page. “It’s about communicating. About both of us, right now, being honest about what we need and what we can’t handle, and working out the terms that allow us to spend time together without anyone feeling threatened or getting hurt.”

“Bears and pandas too?” he asks. He still hasn’t played with Red Panda since they played Mission in Odessa.

“Bears and pandas too.”

So Bucky hands her a pen, and together they write.

**Author's Note:**

> The plant that Steve put the Soldier in charge of is a [miniature African violet,](http://homeguides.sfgate.com/miniature-african-violet-plants-23342.html) which he chose for the Soldier because as far as plants go, they're high maintenance.
> 
> The concept of a conversational safeword was inspired by [this Tumblr post](http://tinybro.tumblr.com/post/118252387098/so-we-have-a-conversational-safeword-in-my-group): "so we have a conversational safeword in my group of friends and it’s great, idk why more people don’t do this. whenever someone wants a subject to be dropped immediately no questions asked we just say “spleen” and we stop immediately and it’s a really good way to avoid crossing the line between teasing friends and genuinely upsetting them by accident, or stopping debates from turning into actual arguments"
> 
> The stoplight technique that Bucky suggests is a [real method for anger management](http://stress.lovetoknow.com/Using_a_Traffic_Light_for_Anger_Management), though it doesn't always use an actual, physical stoplight.
> 
> Check out these awesome, recent APSHDS spin-off stories:
> 
> [ _Kiss It Better_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4753412/chapters/10867256) by [vironsusi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vironsusi/pseuds/vironsusi)  
> [ _Bears and Dodgeball_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4888567) by [ravenously](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenously/pseuds/ravenously)  
> [ _A Case of Bear Butterflies_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4851674) by [Musings_of_a_Monster](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Musings_of_a_Monster/pseuds/Musings_of_a_Monster)
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://lauralot89.tumblr.com) as well, if you'd like to check out my posts there!


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